What Came Before
by cowgirlfromhell
Summary: ATF/AU - Will a reunion with the past reveal what came before?  MOG's wonderful ATF AU, with my thanks.
1. Chapter 1

When he saw her again it all came rushing back, slamming into him, washing over him, damn near drowning him in painful memories. The horrific sounds of rending metal, the bright explosion of glass like twinkling stars falling to earth. The nauseating smells of water steaming on hot engines mixed with the smell of gasoline and the sickening, sweet smell of blood. They all assault him and suddenly he is back - eighteen years before.

He's on his knees in the pouring rain, blood blinding him as he crawls along the hard pavement groping for the bright patch of color on the rain soaked street. Pain is ripping through him where a jagged piece of metal has torn through his chest, puncturing his lung. Breathing is unbearable but he has to get to the little bit of color before it's too late.

Car doors slam around him as others begin to stop but he can't hear them. The horrendous explosion of sound still rings in his ears. The bright pink splotch of color grows dim and, shaking his head, he wipes the blood from his eyes to clear his vision so he can crawl the few remaining feet. His shaking hands reach out to clutch the bundle to his chest, the pink fabric turning red with his blood. Pink is her favorite color.

From the beginning he knew his baby would be a girl, as far back as the first time he laid his hands on his wife's baby bump and felt the faint flutter. After that, he never bought anything that wasn't pink; pink booties, pink nighties, pink overalls with bright flowers and hot pink sneakers as she grew older and started to walk. Just the day before he had bought her a little pink baseball cap to cover her crown of golden curls.

He kneels on the wet ground and smoothes back those curls from her forehead and knows that his wife will kill him for letting her get so wet. He holds his daughter tighter to him and tears begin to run down his face as sirens scream around them. Two paramedics rush up to him in the downpour, fingers reaching out for pulse points. They try to take her from his arms, to see to his head wound but he hits out at them to keep them at bay. He knows that if he holds on to her tight enough, long enough, she'll be okay.

After a while he is loaded into an ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital. Still he holds her gently but not as tightly as his strength ebbs. They try to take her again just as his wife rushes in through the automatic doors, her uniform soaked through from the rain. A second police officer, her partner and his best friend, is right behind her.

A doctor hurries up to her and her face is suddenly as still as death as she listens. Her knees start to buckle and her partner steadies her until she composes herself. Turning to him, her facade purely professional, unreadable, she starts across the tiled floor to the small area where he sits. Coming up to him, she smiles sadly and reaches out for the toddler.

"It's all right," she says softly, "I'm just going to take her home, put her to bed. They'll stitch up your head and then you come home, too."

He knows she's safe now, her mama will take care of her and, as his wife takes the child gently from his strong, protective arms, she brushes bloodied dark hair back from his forehead before she turns to go.

"Oh, my God!" An emergency room nurse sees the blood still seeping from his chest wound, bubbling where his breath leaks out.

He sees his wife's face as she turns back to look at him, as she hugs their daughter to her breast, and tears course down her cheeks. Her beautiful face is now so full of pain that he actually feels his heart turn painfully in his chest and darkness closes in on him.

A day doesn't go by that he still doesn't think about them both, his ex-wife's face ravaged by unspeakable suffering as she held their baby girl, his child's eyes closed as if in sleep; dead just days before her second birthday.

Their marriage, like their only child, had not survived. He hadn't been able to cope with the loss, the pain and, most especially, the guilt. The speeding driver, who had actually been at fault, had died at the scene and he was left to shoulder the burden of his own guilt alone. He could have waited until the rain stopped. He could have taken another route. He could have done a million other things but he hadn't.

After emergency surgery and weeks of healing and therapy, he'd recovered fully from his injuries and was deemed fit to return to duty. Instead, he left the Miami Dade Police Department and started to drink in earnest. When he was drunk, he could forget for a while. Like his physical scars, the physiological wounds would start to heal over but as soon as he sobered up again, he felt the need to pick at the scabs and to let his soul bleed once more, to grieve anew. It was a vicious circle, so much so that he was unable to comfort his grieving wife although she had needed him desperately.

He never stopped loving her but could never bring himself to reach out to her. She, in turn, hadn't stopped loving him and, more importantly, hadn't blamed him. But she couldn't save him either and finally, out of desperation, she had turned to another man and as unfair as it was, he could finally blame her for something.

He had walked away from everything; his wife, his career and a cemetery where a shiny, colorful pinwheel planted in the earth near a small marker spun in the warm breeze and reflected the bright Florida sun. A pinwheel he never saw.

"Buck, are you all right, man?" J.D. Dunne's voice cut through the darkness to bring him back into the light before he was stuck there forever.

It had taken him years to move on from that dark place and to suddenly be thrown back there shook him to his core. He absently rubbed the faded scars under his shirt. The gash in his scalp only hurt on particularly bad days - like this one.

The woman who had triggered his sudden emotional meltdown stood shoulder to shoulder with Chris Larabee. She was even more beautiful than the day he'd first met her. Her glorious thick blonde hair was tucked behind her ears as she bent over the paperwork on Chris' desk and only a few wrinkles; tiny laugh lines really, creased the corners of her eye. He was thankful she'd been able to laugh through the years.

Buck willed his own tears back down deep inside and continued on to his desk, a look of melancholy on his face.

Watching him, Nathan Jackson looked to Josiah Sanchez who just shrugged his broad shoulders in return. The office Romeo was definitely off his game as Buck continued to stare at the DEA agent in Chris' office for some time. A range of emotions ran across his face, none of which was the bright eyed leer reserved for any female brave enough to enter Team Seven's bullpen - Buck Wilmington's private game reserve.

"He sick?" Josiah asked J.D. nodding his head toward the man in question.

"He was okay when we got here." J.D. assured the two of them and wondered briefly himself what had gotten into his friend as he continued to stare, "Who's that with Chris?"

Josiah leaned back in his chair, placed his large hands behind his head and told them, "DEA SAC outta Florida. Gonna work with us breaking up some Mexican connection that's been runnin' skag from Mexico to Miami via Colorado."

"Colorado is a little out of the way, is it not, Mr. Sanchez?" Ezra asked from his seat and sipped his Starbuck's coffee.

Turning to the undercover agent, Josiah replied, "That's precisely why they're running the stuff through here."

Vin Tanner checked his watch, stood up and started to make his way to the large conference room for the meeting Chris had called for zero nine hundred sharp. Nathan, Josiah, Ezra and J.D. followed suite, each grabbing up notebooks, pens and coffee cups as they did. Only Buck remained at his desk, now staring at his computer screen, rereading the same email over and over, never comprehending a single word, his mind a million miles away.

"Bucklin!" Vin said sharply and slapped the desktop. "Meetin'!"

The tall, lanky agent just nodded mechanically and got up to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

The woman in Chris' office recognized Buck Wilmington by the lazy way he walked, thumb hooked in his belt. His face had changed over the years and not for the worse. Gone were the smooth skin and rounded cheeks of the twenty three year old she had last seen, his face now all hard planes with a strong, firm jaw. He was even more handsome, sexier now with a mustache and a few days' growth of beard on his guileless face. His thick hair was still a deep, rich brown, worn shorter now but still in need of a cut. Only his eyes were the same after all the years - dark blue and deeply haunted.

The other men who made up Denver's Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives Team Seven all looked toward Buck when he finally came into the room and sat down, their eyes questioning. He was suddenly different to them and their concern and confusion showed. The DEA agent knew that the ATF Special agent had recognized her and the shock of it had changed his demeanor from the man his teammates knew and were comfortable with to a somber stranger they didn't quite know how to handle.

Wilmington's outgoing personality, always a major player in any venue, was now subdued and the room was suspiciously quiet. No slams, no filthy jokes or roughhousing, standard operating procedure in most Team Seven meetings - even with a female present.

Chris Larabee stood at the head of the table, his mouth a grim line. The dynamics of his team had suddenly changed and he didn't have a clue as to why, nor had he any idea why the sight of Buck had left the DEA agent's face pale and her hands trembling. Larabee quickly offered her a chair and she began to go through her files keeping her eyes glued to the pages all the while.

Why hadn't she bothered to get information on the other five men who made up Team Seven? She had only requested jackets on the team leader and the licensed pilot, Josiah Sanchez. Of course she would have recognized Buck's name immediately and would have been more prepared - as if one could really prepare for a meeting with a former husband for the first time in over twenty years. Deciding to not beat herself up on the fact, she would simply gather her wits about her and conduct her meeting. The sooner the op was done, the sooner she could be on her way back to Miami.

"Gentlemen," Chris' voice was like a shot through the silence of the room and even the SAC was a little startled, "This is Special Agent in Charge Carolyn Sims."

The woman, dressed in black slacks, a white blouse and black suit jacket, complete with regulation bad ass aviator shades in the breast pocket, nodded to most of the group but avoided looking directly at Buck and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off of her. He realized by her demeanor that she hadn't known that he would be there and, if the pain of her memories equaled his, all he wanted to do was to hold her close and protect her from the past.

But Buck had blown his chance to protect and comfort her when she had needed him the most and he doubted very much that she would even let him get close enough to talk to her let alone to take her in his arms. Besides, what would he say? What could he ever say to make it right?

Sims was her maiden name and he was surprised that she still used it. After he left Florida, he hadn't heard whether she had married her partner or not. The fear of the pain it might cause him to find out kept his morbid curiosity in check and he had, instead, put as many guilty miles and years between the two of them as he could. In fact, he'd never heard another word about her but his cowardice had worked to a fault. It had kept him totally in the dark about her job as a Special Agent out of the Miami office of the DEA and about her trip to Colorado.

Buck continued to listen, barely, as Chris went on.

"We've been asked by DEA to facilitate in the hijacking, as it were, of a jet purported to be loaded with hundreds of kilos of Mexican heroin," he said and promptly turned the meeting over to SAC Sims.

"That's right, gentlemen, but this plane is not just filled with heroin. It's loaded to the flight attendant call lights with pure unadulterated Black Tar heroin, otherwise known as Pigment, Piedra Negro, Chiva, nut job, capital B, Black Clown and, my personal favorite, Cheesums. As you probably already know, Mexican drug smugglers are peddling this form of ultra-potent shit for as little as a dime a G-pack and it's so pure it kills unsuspecting users so fast that the needle's usually still stuck in their arms when we find them."

Agent Sims stopped to take a breath and a sip of coffee before she continued.

"The target aircraft, a Learjet 60, is a two pilot, ten-passenger business class jet with a range of 2,409 nautical miles. The interior has most likely been gutted to make room for as much product as possible and this pig will be so weighted down that it'll use enough fuel to warrant the stopover in Colorado."

She quickly looked over her audience to see if she'd lost anyone and found that all but one person's eyes were either on her or perusing the files she'd handed out. Under the circumstance it was understandable.

"In order to complete the drop, the jet needs to refuel in some small out of the way airstrip close to an aviation fuel supply. It's usually a cash deal but in this instance the seller wants product instead. When the plane lands, the cartel's courier will get the jet refueled, hand over the agreed upon amount of product and, when the transaction's completed, give the pilots the final destination. They'll fly him on to an airstrip we're pretty sure is in the Florida swamps where he'll unload the shipment, pick up his payment and return to Mexico. In a few weeks they'll do it all over again but with different routes and destinations. We need to waylay this jet here in Colorado, find out the exact location of the final drop and get the bird back in the air ASAP to make the final rendezvous. That's where you come in agent Sanchez."

"Josiah, please," the big man insisted with a smile then added reading through the jet specifications, "I've always wanted to fly one of these babies."

"In addition to myself, I'll need one other agent on board. I'll leave that assignment up to Agent Larabee and, as soon as our CI within the cartel relays more information, I'll let you know the specifics on the landing strip and the ETA."

Carrie Sims finished up with a sideways glance at Buck, who looked longing at the door, and ended the briefing.


	3. Chapter 3

Buck Wilmington sat in a small dark booth in a tiny, hole-in-the-wall, Mexican restaurant; six shots of Patron lined up like little soldiers in front him. Four empty shot glasses were stacked neatly on the table alongside four equally dead soldiers in Adolph Coors' vast army. Between shots, he thought about his baby girl.

She would have been twenty years old this year, his sweet child, the light of his life and she most likely would have looked a lot like her mother with golden hair and flawless skin but with his eyes. A true blue eyed blonde, something special indeed, he thought, and threw back another shot. He started in on his next beer and with any luck would have at least a full squad of empties laid out in front of him before the night was over.

Literally running out after that morning's meeting, Buck had headed up to Capitol Hill on foot to the seedier part of town. He hadn't even stopped to shut off his computer but, after a few hours, someone would finally realize he wasn't coming back and shut her down. Having had the foresight to toss the keys to the Chevy onto the front seat, J.D. would have a way home while he would just get a room at one of the many cheap motels lining East Colfax and sleep off the battle that lay before him.

God, it hurt so much, the pain he'd kept locked so deep inside of him for so long. It had broken free a few years back when Sarah and Adam Larabee had died tragically and for fear that it might be mistaken for a funeral cliché, he had never once told Chris that he "knew what he was going through". He could have said it without batting an eye for he had truly "been there, done that".

Loosing Adam was, in it's own way, almost as bad as loosing Hanna. He couldn't have loved the boy any more than if he had been his own. He was a bright boy, well behaved around his parents but was Uncle Buck's partner in crime on those many occasions when he was called upon to watch Master Larabee. He'd also been looking forward to the birth of the Larabee's second child and, like Chris, had been hoping for a girl.

Chris' children could never replace his loss but being with Adam and being a part of the Larabee family made him genuinely happy. When they had died, another big part of him had died, too, as the overwhelming grief and memories of his own child's death threatened to smother him once again.

Not being enough of a man to console his own wife, something he would regret until his dying day, Buck had matured over the years and during that dark time he had forced everything back inside for his oldest friend. He had sucked it all up and had been the rock Chris Larabee had anchored himself to by the thinnest of threads when he foundered in a sea of despair, beaten soundly by fate and bloodied by guilt.

Later, when the time was right, Chris had allowed Buck to tug ever so gently on that thread and gradually pull him to shore. Their friendship had weathered a fierce storm but Buck was now foundering, the old pain inside of him too private, too selfish for him to tie off to anyone. He had no lifeline because his grief was something he still couldn't bring himself to share with anyone - even after all the years.

If Buck Wilmington _had_ shared his story and his feelings it might have explained his need for shallow and unproductive relationships, the more superficial the better, and his reluctance to even consider getting to know a woman well enough to settle down and start a family. He had married Carrie "'til death do us part" and no other woman had replaced his heart's desire, just as no other child could ever replace his Hanna.

Hours later, as Buck stared at the cache of dead soldiers and the double stack of empty shot glasses littering the table before him, he stood up slowly.

"Fuck it," he muttered and, swaying drunkenly, swept his arm across the tabletop sending everything crashing against the wall, littering the floor with broken glass and pissing off the two bikers sitting at an adjacent table.

Buck Wilmington hadn't needed a motel room after all, just a quick trip to the ER after which he was a guest of the City and County of Denver.


	4. Chapter 4

The distinctive stench of vomit brought Buck Wilmington fully awake - that and the angry, strident voice yelling his name. His head pounded unmercifully, his eyes hurt too much to open and hair had evidently grown on his tongue making it impossible to speak.

"Wilmington!"

Through the slits of his eyes, Buck could just barely make out the angry visage of Chris Larabee. "Oh, fuck," he said under his breath.

"Oh, fuck's right, you dumb son of a bitch," Chris spat out.

A jail attendant stood next to the ATF Special Agent in Charge and snorted derisively when he handed him a clipboard. Larabee signed the release papers, yanked off one copy for himself and shoved the clipboard and pen back into the young officer's hands while the now former detainee sat up with a groan.

Buck's hands shook uncontrollably and his head spun dizzyingly but he got to his feet. Still pretty much drunk from the night before, he figured the ass chewing would be tolerable if not outright entertaining but first he needed to piss like the proverbial racehorse.

"Where's the head?" he managed to croak out in a strangely congested and nasally voice and it suddenly dawned on him just how hard it was to breathe. Lifting trembling hands to his nose, he felt cotton packing, not unlike the ends of two tampons, jammed up both nostrils, then asked, "What the fuck?"

Buck walked slowly into the men's room, bellied up to a urinal and let go a steady, blood tinged, stream. Chris leaned against the wall next to the paper towel holder; his arms folded and watched him like a hawk as he then walked up to the sink.

Turning on the faucet, he spit into the sink then splashed cold water into his face. Straightening up, he took a good look the mirror, wet a paper towel and tried to wipe away some of the dried blood from his mouth. His jaw hurt like holy hell and his lip, now split and puffed up kind of like Angelina Jolie's, started to ooze blood.

He then looked down at his hands, his knuckles purple and swollen, and queried, "You should see the other guy?"

"Not a scratch on them," Chris replied tersely.

"Them? What in the hell happened?"

Chris began to read from the paperwork a litany of six different charges, all of them subsequently dropped, and a grand total of the damages due the restaurant, which Buck would have to pay.

A little past midnight some members of a local biker gang had stopped in for drinks and had subsequently played few games of 'clock the obnoxious, loud mouthed drunk'. The bartender had probably saved Buck's life, and what was left of his bar, by calling the cops.

Chris watched as Buck just stared at his visage blinking a couple of times to make sure he was seeing straight and said, "It might have been easier all around if you'd had just stuck your Colt in you mouth, Buck."

Buck just closed his eyes and wondered if Chris had any idea just how close he'd come.

"Want to tell me about it?" his boss asked.

"Nope," the ladies' man replied pulling the 'tampons' from his nose.

His eyes, now ringed like a raccoon's, watered from the intense pain. Chris handed him another paper towel and, as he held it to his face for a few moments, he was able to dry his very real tears before Chris saw them.

God, he felt terrible, looked worse and, for the kicker, he would have to go to work and face everyone, including his ex-wife. A mid-week bender was not an acceptable excuse for missing work. It was one of those unspoken macho things by which the seven of them lived or died. No matter how "ill" you were, the next day you _would_ drag ass into work or forever be known as a pussy. Buck just hoped Chris would at least take him by his place to shower and change clothes.

Chris agreed and the ride to his home was unbearable, the silence between the two of them deafening. Never at a loss for words, Buck sat silently, his head back and his eyes closed. He had nothing to say really and even if he did, he was too far out to sea to make himself be heard. He no longer had control of his life and, as long as Carrie was there, his emotions.

"The others will understand if you don't come in," Chris offered as an easy out but he, himself, didn't understand it at all. His partner was a happy drunk who usually spent all of his free bar time chasing women, not picking fights he couldn't win. This was a Buck Wilmington he'd never seen before and it bothered him greatly but his bruised and battered colleague just snorted and told him, "I'll be right out."

Buck showered until the water ran cold. He shaved without inflicting any more damage to his battered face and dressed gingerly, trying not to touch any the bruises that now tattooed his body, all the while making a mental note to have the "KICK MY ASS, PLEASE" sign removed from his forehead. He would have relished the opportunity to take some perverse revenge on the perpetrators but he couldn't remember anything about the past night...except what had brought it all on.


	5. Chapter 5

Any other day Buck Wilmington would have proudly taken a bow to acknowledge the round of applause that greeted his entrance into the bullpen but the ruckus died down quickly, dampened by the look on his face. He took his seat, promptly crossed his arms on the desktop and rested his throbbing head. The 'rule' didn't say that the unfortunate, hung over, sick as a dog, son of a bitch had to do any work - just show up.

Carrie stood in the doorway of Chris' office and watched Buck's walk of shame and sighed. When her former husband had left Florida, left her, she had forced herself stop feeling anything for him. It had been a hard won battle and thinking of him had begun to hurt less and less with each passing day until, after a few years, she only thought of from time to time and without malice. Seeing him again, especially in this state, made her realize that she had never stopped feeling everything for the man as all the old feelings came rushing back. Her emotions began to war with her common sense and she was suddenly confused, a precarious way at best to launch a very dangerous operation.

As Carrie watched him slip silently into his seat, he felt sorry for him but she also wanted to kick his ass and knock some sense into that hard head of his - then hold him in her arms and kiss his cuts and bruises. She wanted to tell him that everything would be all right but she didn't know if it would. She had no idea where his head was and the best she could do for him at the moment was to leave him his pride. So she left, unseen, and returned to her hotel to await word on the jet's ETA.

Chris Larabee's reaction, however, was another matter altogether.

The team leader came out of his office and shouted, "Wilmington!" but the man's head never moved. Chris didn't buy into it and demanded, "Buck, get your ass in my office now!"

The ladies' man finally acquiesced and lifted his head. He was a sorry sight but one Chris could live with. He would rather see Buck at his desk, no matter how much pain he was in both physically or mentally, than to see his corpse laid out down in the morgue - which was exactly where he could end up if he didn't get his shit together and get it together pronto. None of them had any idea who they were going up against or where the drop was going to take place and he needed every man on his team with his head firmly in the game.

As he waited at his door, Buck trudged past Chris and sat down in the naughty chair - the one situated directly in front of Larabee's desk. He sighed deeply, closed his eyes and waited with a scowl on his face.

"Buck..." Chris began but the man held up a hand silencing him.

Buck was in no mood to listen to anyone about anything. He neither wanted to be cajoled into spilling his guts nor spanked for being out of line and out of control. It had been a disastrous twenty four hours so far and he now found himself to be in the position of having to explain how, through omission, he had lied to his best friend for years.

He'd not only glossed over his life before meeting Chris Larabee he'd flat out lied to the man about certain events and certain scars on his body and now he couldn't back peddle fast enough or far enough to fix it. His best bet was to go all hard-ass on Chris and make it clear that he didn't want to discuss any of it. It would piss his boss off royally but hopefully Chris would eventually forgive him his nasty bullheadedness.

"Listen Chris, I know what I did was stupid but I had my reasons."

"It was not only stupid but it was dangerous. If those bikers had known you were a federal agent they wouldn't have bothered trying to beat you to death, they would have just shot you in the back of the head and dumped you on some well manicured lawn in Cherry Creek."

"I didn't have my ID on me, as you damn well know, or I wouldn't have had to spend the night in a fucking cell," Buck countered crossly and watched as the vain in Chris' temple started to throb, thankful that Larabee had such a short fuse that morning.

Okay, Chris thought, so this is how you want to play it.

"Listen Bucklin," he said non too gently, "I don't give a rat's ass who she is or why she broke your heart or even if you spent all your hard earned cash on her before she fucked you over. Just get over it and get over it now!"

"You think this is over some woman?" Buck shouted back at him jumping up and knocking the chair over backwards.

Chris just sat back in his chair with a grim smile on his face. "Well, isn't it?"

Buck's mouth gaped open a couple of times like a dying fish. Yeah, it was over a woman, a woman and a little baby girl.

He fixed Chris with a firm stare and with a hard edge to his voice responded, "Chris, I'm sorry about last night. I know this op is important to ATF and to DEA both and I'm not gonna do anything to screw it up. I'll be absolutely one hundred percent a go when we get the call."

"You'd better be but right now I don't trust you to take down my grandmother. Have J.D. take you home to sleep it off," Chris said and added with disgust, "No woman's worth it."

"Yes, sir," Buck said respectfully.

He was not contrite in the least but was thankful for the reprieve. It seemed that God did watch out for drunks...but little children? Not so much.


	6. Chapter 6

Chris Larabee and Carolyn Sims sat with the others in a hotel conference room going over the plan of attack. Buck remained silent and well out of her line of sight, his dark blue ATF ball cap pulled low over his eyes, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Agent Sims received intel from her CI and the jet's ETA is approximately noon tomorrow," Chris told them, "I've explained to her about the leak within our department and, in deference to our internal plumbing problem, she's spoken to no one in regards to this information. No one outside of this room knows anything about tomorrow's operation. Agent Simms has also graciously offered to cover our 'assets' and DEA will sanction this op. We go through her for everything."

Josiah smiled at Nathan. The two of them were satisfied to be working under the auspices of the DEA, however temporary. It would be like grabbing upper echelon ATF balls and twisting. Anything to get them to take the security breach that led to Ezra's kidnapping and subsequent abuse by Cain seriously. Vin was also relieved but disappointed that they had to circumvent their own agency while J.D. just smiled at the prospect of adding a rad DEA ball cap to his collection.

"And boys," Chris added, "It looks like we've all been especially good these past few months because the scumbag fairy has granted us a wish. The airfield the cartel is using, and has apparently been all along, belongs to Mr. Jonathan Cain."

"Sweet Jesus, Yes!" Josiah said and looked to Ezra who suddenly began to believe in divine intervention.

An almost feral smile broke out on Standish's face while J.D. turned in his chair to face the under cover agent and smiled broadly. "Yeah, sweet, Ezra, sweet ass!"

Vin, stoked for the payback to begin, was ready to exact some measure of revenge for what the man had put his friend through; what he had put them all through. He smiled and added, "We're finally gonna get another crack at that wired up jackrabbit."

Carrie just smiled at their enthusiasm at the prospect of getting the bad guys. With the revolving doors of the justice system and the apathy of the general public, too many agents became disillusioned over the years and apparently ATF was suffering from a similar malaise in the form of a serious and potentially lethal leak.

The DEA agent had pulled in a string of favors and Team Seven had been reassigned temporarily to her. The move allowed her to run the operation as she saw fit and she thought it prudent to bypass the lower ranks of the Denver ATF office and keep Larabee's team and the op completely off the radar. That way they would avoid being compromised by the department malcontent, whoever he or she was.

After offering dispensation, Carrie needed to know all the pertinent details about Jonathan Cain to avoid any snafus that might leave her ass swinging in the breeze and asked, "What's the deal on this guy Cain? Can we expect much trouble on that front?"

Ezra spoke up, his voice strained but forceful. "I have intimate knowledge of the man, Agent Sims, and he is a very dangerous individual. Seems to take a certain sadistic delight in harming people, especially those in our line of work."

"Well, Agent Standish, it seems he's had a long and very profitable relationship with the Torres cartel allowing their jets to land at his airstrip for refueling in exchange for a percentage of the goods on board for quite some time now. It also seems that Cain likes to personally oversee these transactions."

When she relayed this information, Ezra felt a chill run down his back. Fear was his knee jerk reaction to the knowledge that Cain would be present and, as Chris caught his eye; the senior agent let a barely perceived nod pass between the two of them. Whatever it took, it said, and with that, the use of lethal force was placed squarely on the table.

Carrie distributed the dossiers she held in her hand and began to speak about assignments. "Agent Wilmington, as the fuel-jockey sent out from the co-op Cain contracts with you'll have first contact with Cain and Torres' man. It'll be your job to separate those two from any backup. A little sloppiness on your part and the explosive potential of a fully loaded fuel truck should be just the thing to keep Cain's men well away."

As she spoke Chris looked pointedly at his closest friend to make sure he was getting up to speed on everything and not just wool gathering. His life could depend on it. Hell, all their lives could depend on it.

Josiah nodded in Buck's direction. "Won't Cain recognize Buck from past interrogations?"

"If she were still with us, I doubt Buck's own mother would recognize him," Chris said and looked again at his agent's battered face.

"But won't they at least wonder about Mr. Wilmington's appearance and possibly become suspicious?" Ezra wanted to know.

"They'll just think he fell in a combine," Vin deadpanned the answer quietly.

The group laughed heartily with the exception of Carrie and Buck who found the cause and the effect not the least bit amusing.

Chris who still searched for answers himself and never encourage laughter on principle alone remained stone faced. On Carrie Sims' first day with Team Seven, the day of Buck's abrupt departure, Chris had taken her to dinner to try and find the reason for the strange dance between Wilmington and her and, while it had been a very enjoyable evening, he was not any closer to finding out what was going on between the two of them then when she'd first walked into the office.

The Special Agent in Charge had been evasive, deftly changing the subject whenever he brought up anything remotely personal, turning it full circle back on him. She now knew most of his life story while he still knew very little of hers or of her connection to Buck. It could have just been hate at first sight but he didn't think that was the case.

"Buck's perfected the art of being innocuous when he needs to be. He'll play it so Cain will think he's just another hired hand and they won't give him a second look," Chris assured Carrie and, before she could voice any concerns of her own, he added, "But just in case you might want to assign Vin to the water tower where he can just blow Cain's head off if it comes to that."

"Sounds like a plan," she agreed wholeheartedly. As an afterthought she had pulled the files on all the rest of Team Seven and the long-range shooter's stats truly impressed her

"I'll try my damnedest to try and save his sorry ass for you, Ez," Vin promised easily.

"Josiah and Nathan will suit up as mechanics "working" on a Cessna near the Quonset hut and the two of them will neutralize the pilots. The rest of us will be out of sight until they start unloading the goods. As soon as the trade goes down we're a go. Any questions?" she asked.

There were none and Carrie turned the meeting over to Chris for logistics.

"Tomorrow, Buck you're with me, Ezra and Vin in the Ram," he said, "The rest of you can follow in the Suburban with Josiah. We need to leave here at first light to get to Byers to set up. We run nothing through ATF so you'll have to supply your own firepower and ammunition. Dress is casual and a beer or feed store logo on your ball cap is mandatory." Chris looked at his watch. He had to return to his office but before he left he would try making an end run around Agents Sims and Wilmington.

"If there aren't any more questions, you're dismissed...with the exception of Buck. Agent Sims can you stay a minute, too."

Wilmington had spent enough time in the principle's office yesterday for fighting and couldn't imagine what Chris could say to him chastise him further. Buck heaved a heavy sigh and his stomach knotted at the thought of finally facing her, even with Chris in the room with them. He had wanted to explain to her about his behavior but what could he possible say? With his bender and night in jail, he had already shown her his ass without even taking his pants down.

Carrie looked uncomfortable and he couldn't blame her. Years of unresolved conflict and mountains of painful emotional baggage would make any conversation pretty dicey at best. Leaning back in his chair, he waited patiently to hear what words of wisdom Chris Larabee had to impart.

But he would go on waiting because the man simply walked out the door with the others and closed it behind him leaving the two of them alone.

Disappointed and a little hurt that Chris would put him in such an awkward position; Buck lowered his eyes and remained silent.

Carrie cleared her throat and watched as he finally raised his battered face to look her in the eyes. She had always loved the way he seemed to see only her, even in a crowded room, but now his intense stare only made her more uncomfortable. She suspected that when he looked at her now, he was recalling every terrible memory, hearing every angry word and feeling every bit of the pain in his heart that he had twenty years ago. She also wondered fleetingly if he was feeling any shame.

The breakdown and the breakup of their lives together hadn't all been Buck's making. Forsaking her wedding vows, she **had**turned to another man and she hadn't blame Buck at all for leaving then, just as she wouldn't blame him if he left her now...which is just what he did.

"I'm sorry, Carrie, but I can't do this right now," he said softly and lowered his eyes again.

He couldn't speak to her now or, quite possibly, ever. There was too much history between them, too much said and left unsaid all those years ago. Everything they had ever had together was dead - dead and buried along with their precious little girl and, without another word, Buck gathered up his meeting materials and left her alone once again.


	7. Chapter 7

The following morning, much to Buck's chagrin, Larabee started right in on him. "Buck, if you need to talk..."

"Damn it, Chris! I'm just tryin' to do my effin' job so back...off!" The ladies' man pulled his ball cap down over his eyes and stalked out of the Quonset hut into the bright morning sun. He 'd picked up the loaded fuel truck earlier that morning at the fuel depot and wanted nothing more than for the op to be over. The sooner it was done the sooner Carrie would be on her way back to Miami and his world just might just stop reeling.

Ezra watched the ladies' man storm out of the building and returned to checking his gun. "What's bothering Mr. Wilmington do you suppose?" he wondered aloud as he holstered his Remington 1911 R1 and made sure he had more than enough clips to take out a small army.

"I don't have a clue," Chris said truly perplexed, "But I do know it has everything to do with Carrie Sims."

Catching her name as she walked through the back door of the small Quonset hut, the DEA agent walked over to the others. "A problem, Chris?" She was dressed like the others in jeans and a baggy shirt covering her vest. Her long hair was braided and tucked up under a ball cap, one with a Florida Gator on the brim, and she peered at Team Seven's leader over her sunglasses.

"Nothing really," he told her noncommittally, "Just one of my boys off his feed."

J.D., with his back against the hard metal wall of the Quonset, checked and rechecked his Glock 17 semi-automatic. Hearing Chris' comment he felt her shoud speak up. "Any other time, a woman as pretty as you would be beating Buck off with a stick and we'd be havin' to run interference for you."

"Agent Wilmington's a real ladies' man, huh?" Carrie asked with a wry smile as she looked down at J.D..

"An understatement if I've ever head one. Brother Buck is THE ladies' man," Josiah said from the small desk as he went over his flight checklist, an almost impossible task with the final destination still a mystery.

Nathan was at the window keeping an eye out for the Lear and the continuing subdued demeanor of the normally loquacious Wilmington worried him, too, but he didn't say anything.

"Where is Agent Wilmington?" Carrie wanted to know.

Vin had just come in from outside and spoke up, "He's checkin' out the fuel truck."

"He good to go? He'll have initial contact and we don't want to spook either of 'em."

Chris shoved a clip in his Colt 1991 Series Government 1911 pistol, chambered a 45 ACP round and slipped the safety on. "He'll be fine...just hasn't been himself lately."

"He seems pretty competent to me."

Carrie was fishing again for information on Buck and Chris wanted to know why. His patience was quickly coming to an end. "That's just it," he huffed in disgust, "If you knew him, you'd know he never comes off as competent. Nobody takes him seriously until it's too late. It's his gift. That's why I hired him." Chris' words came out sharper than he intended but he wasn't angry, just frustrated as hell.

"I do know him," And with her quite admission Chris and the others stopped what they were doing. "Or at least I knew him - a long time ago."

Vin gently set his CheyTac Intervention M310 Single Shot rifle case down on the floor of the Quonset hut and spoke to no one in particular. "I'm gonna go check out the coffee in this fine establishment," he said and headed toward the two small offices at the back of the building, kicking J.D. in the sole of his sneaker as he passed him by, "You comin', kid?"

"Yeah, yeah sure," the young agent said then hustled to his feet.

Josiah and Nathan joined the exodus and Ezra, taking his cue from the others, followed suit leaving the two senior agents alone. One, the man who had known Buck Wilmington for over twelve years and thought he was privy to everything there was to know about the man, and the other, the woman who was privy to that part of Buck's life that he had kept hidden away from everyone else.

"I'm telling you about him..." she began, "about the two of us, so you know that, despite the way things look right now, Buck Wilmington is the same man you've always known. The same man with all the same qualities that made you choose him for your team in the first place. The same qualities that make him the loyal friend you all so obviously cherish."

Chris smiled at her. Was it that apparent?

"And they're the same wonderful qualities that made me fall so hopelessly in love with him when we were just freshmen in college. A talented athlete and a regular cut-up, he gravitated toward the jocks, or should I say they gravitated toward him, and subsequently to the cheerleaders. We started dating our freshman year and we were still together when we graduated."

As she spoke they moved to the back of the room where she sat down at one of the desks and continued.

"Being the only child of a Miami beat cop, I chose to go to the police academy. Buck, pretty much of a rolling stone, went along for the ride but he found he had a real penchant for law enforcement and graduated at the top of our class. We were married shortly thereafter with all the pomp and circumstance of a police wedding; uniforms, crossed swords, the whole shebang. I didn't know two people could be happier until _we_ got pregnant and our daughter was born."

The stunned look that had first crossed Chris' face was quickly replaced by one of puzzlement. A thousand questions churned in his mind but he remained silent leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching as Carrie's faced softened with each sweet memory.

"Hanna was daddy's girl from the get go and Buck couldn't have been any more in love with her. He was the perfect husband, the perfect daddy and way ahead of his time, the original Mr. Mom. We both went to work for Miami PD full time, me on nights, Buck on swing. I can't tell you how many mornings I'd come home to find them asleep on the couch, Hanna on Buck's chest. It got to the point where she couldn't go to sleep without the sound of his heartbeat but how she slept through his snoring I'll never know."

Carrie removed her ball cap and ran her hand over the top of her head smoothing her hair and steeling herself for what was to come.

"Buck took Hanna everywhere with him. Even when he ran he stuck her in a backpack and they were out the door. He told me he liked taking her with him because she was a chick magnet. She was a magnet all right, a daddy magnet. You'd think I would have been jealous but he had enough love for both of the women in his life."

This time Carrie stopped just long enough to take a deep breath.

"Just before Hanna's second birthday, the two of them were coming back from visiting my parents. A cloudburst opened up, flooding the streets and a speeding car hydroplaned across the median in the downpour and hit them head on. Buck was seriously injured and Hanna..."

She had to stop again because, even after all the years, it was still so hard.

Chris squatted down beside her and took her hand in his. He was touched that she would share this with him and waited silently for her to continue.

"Hanna was thrown through the windshield but Buck managed to find her. He held her in his arms all the way to the hospital and later, when he was out of surgery, I had to tell him she was gone. The absolute worst moment of my life was not when they told my child was dead but when I had to tell her daddy the most precious thing in his life was gone."

Chris' own pain surfaced as he remembered the exact moment his world had come crashing down on him. His eyes sparkled briefly with unshed tears but Carrie didn't see them. She was lost in the past.

"I wish I could say that things got better with time but they only got worse. Buck was inconsolable, extremely angry and extremely volatile. He didn't go to the funeral. As far as I know he never went to the cemetery, never once visited her grave. People's opinions of him changed drastically after that. The cops we worked with couldn't forgive him for abandoning me, letting me handle it all alone but what was worse was that he couldn't forgive himself and closed himself off completely getting drunk for days on end."

"He quit the force and became a ghost in his own home spending most of his time in Hanna's room and ignoring me the rest. I thought I would go crazy so I started staying away more and more and, when I did come back, Buck would just stare at me. I tried to pick fights with him; anything would have been better than the silence but my husband had nothing left to give me, not even his anger, so I turned to my partner, the man who stood next to me at my daughter's funeral and later at her grave."

Carrie's fingers gripped Chris' tightly. Her face was pale but her cheeks were flushed with emotion and he wondered if she was going to continue. He wondered if he should even let her. The jet would be there within the hour and she'd be of no use to him if she were an emotional wreck. But she was almost finished.

"Then one day he was just gone. I walked around the house crying my fool head off, begging God to answer impossible questions. Why had he taken my baby? Why were Buck and I being punished? Why couldn't our love get us through Hanna's death? I still loved Buck with all my heart but it just wasn't enough and, on my slow trek around the silent house, one thing struck me like a physical blow. Buck had never cried...not once."

Tears finally slipped down her cheeks and Chris rose up and pulled her into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder for a brief moment then pulled back, swiping angrily at the tears. "Hell of a way for a tough DEA bitch to act, huh?"

Chris was having none of it.

"It's okay to hurt, Carrie. God knows, Buck Wilmington taught me that when my wife and son were killed. If it hadn't been for him, I don't think I would have made it." Chris thought back and closed his eyes momentarily. "It must have been hell for him, too; he was so close to my wife and son."

Carrie looked absolutely stunned. She was thoroughly taken aback by Chris Larabee's revelation of the deaths of his family.

Pushing his own memories aside Chris sighed and continued, "I never knew any of this; he never mentioned one thing about it." Chris had thought the two of them were close and he was hurt and angry but didn't know if he could really blame Buck for never telling him about the past.

"I'm so sorry for your loss..." Carrie started hesitantly then finally asked, "When your son and wife died...did he cry?"

"Like a baby," he told her.

"Oh, thank God," she whispered.

Chris' emotions were now in turmoil as he turned to stare out the small window. For him the only small comfort that had come out of his horrific situation was the fact that Sarah had been with Adam when he had died, to show him the way and she would be there with him forever. Buck didn't even have that small comfort. His daughter had died alone.

Chris wondered if his friend ever wondered if she had been frightened, crying for her mommy, for her daddy and recalled a time, just hours after the funeral, when he had overheard Buck ask Josiah what he thought heaven was. Josiah had told him that heaven was simply whatever Buck wanted it to be and that he, himself, liked to think that those who had gone before would be waiting when we crossed over and that they would appear to us as we wanted to see them. In turn, we would appear to them the way they wanted to see us.

The former preacher gave Buck an example and said that when Chris finally crossed over he might see Sarah as the beautiful bride she had once been or the radiant mother of his newborn son. She could even appear as the graceful, gray haired matron she would have become if she had lived. Chris might also see Adam as the fine young man he would most assuredly have become or the impish little scamp he knew and loved so well. Heaven was what you wanted it to be but most of all; heaven was peace, happiness and family. After their conversation Buck seemed satisfied, a little more at peace.

Chris continued to look out the small window at the fuel truck and at his friend. Suddenly aware of the depth of Buck's friendship, he was even more worried about him than before. He figured Buck was using self-abuse as a coping mechanism. He wasn't self-destructing because of some bimbo - he was courting a death wish because of his daughter.

Chris Larabee felt like a class-A shit. He should have recognized Buck's M.O. as the same one he used when Sarah and Adam had died. He decided that Buck's suffering had gone on far too long and that his friend needed to face his past and lay down his guilt, a burden that was far too heavy and totally undeserved. Buck Wilmington needed to mourn his daughter properly, to cry for his beloved Hanna.

"Carrie," Chris said and she turned to look at him with clear eyes, "I strongly suggest that you let Buck go on to Florida with you and Josiah instead of Ezra. He's more than able to handle the job. Speaks fluent Spanish and can transact the sale and bust the dirt bags on the other end."

Carrie was suddenly apprehensive. She had every faith in Buck's ability to do the job but it would be more than uncomfortable to be alone with him in the small jet.

As if reading her mind Chris then suggested, "You can ride shotgun with Josiah and Buck can cool his jets in back."

Carrie smiled weakly and nodded her agreement to Chris' plans - the spoken one and the unspoken one, the one he hoped she would put into play once she and Buck were back in Miami.

Chris placed his hand gently on her shoulder, returned her smile and said, "Help him lay Hanna to rest."


	8. Chapter 8

Sensing it was safe to return, the others moseyed back into the main room and picked up waiting weapons. Vin headed outside and climbed the steps to the tiny airport tower where he set up the M310 and laid his ammo block, loaded with twelve wildcat .408 Cheyenne Tactical centerfire cartridge rounds, beside it on the window's ledge. Back in the Quonset hut, the clock ticked noisily in the quietness of the room as the others waited.

"Scum bags at twelve o'clock high!" Nathan's voice boomed in the silence as Vin's warning came through his earpiece.

Josiah pulled his mechanic's overalls up the rest of the way and tucked his handgun into the pocket of the baggy garment. He and Nathan sprinted out to the Cessna as Vin watched the approaching aircraft and waved at the pair.

Buck sat in the cab of the fuel truck, radio blasting Country and Western, until Nathan hit the side of the truck to give him a heads up as he passed by. Dust could be seen coming toward them on the dirt road leading to the airfield but there was no limousine for Cain. He rode in the back of a Humvee with one "soldier" driving and another riding shotgun.

The jet touched down and made its way slowly toward the Quonset hut. Buck started up the fuel truck, pulled his cap down lower over his eyes and, when the jet finished its taxi, he drove up next to it and stopped. Hopping out he unrolled the long hose and clumsily spilled a rather large amount of fuel on the tarmac before finally connecting fully to the aircraft.

Seeing the fuel spray, the Hummer driver made a wide loop and parked fairly far away from the jet.

Ezra, his heart hammering in his chest, watched through the window as Cain got out of the vehicle, a metal briefcase in his hand, and swaggered up to the jet. He waited for the cartel's man to come down the stairs in the forefront of the plane with a duct taped bundle about the size of a brick and taking a proffered bundle Cain started in on the process of testing a sample. The kit was laid out in plain sight on the fuel truck's hood and, as Buck continued to refuel the plane, he surreptitiously watched the duo.

Satisfied with the purity of the drugs, Cain turned to call his men over and that was when Buck pulled the slide back on his weapon and smiled. Both men stopped, Cain with a look of disbelief on his face while a look of pure anger distorted the features of Torres' courier who shouted in Spanish about being set up by Cain and the different ways all of them were going to be tortured first and then killed by his boss.

"You think we're workin' for this asshole?" Buck asked in perfect Spanish and pointed his gun at Cain, "We're DEA. Now raise 'em high, you fuck sticks."

Josiah walked to the pilot's window, tapped on it with his weapon and winked. The pilot shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands. He was only paid to fly and wasn't about to try anything heroic.

Nathan hurried past Buck, ducked inside the cabin and stuck a gun into the cockpit whereupon the co-pilot raised his hands, too.

"Keep your eyes on those two morons," Ezra said and pointed to Cain's two men anticipating every move the two were going to make. He stepped silently out of the Quonset hut and came up behind them as they climbed out of the Humvee to see what was taking Cain so long.

"We'll gentlemen, we meet again."

Both men turned with their guns drawn and Ezra fired, hitting one in his reaching arm just as Chris pulled up on the other, who immediately dropped his gun to the ground.

"Assume the position, dirt bags," Chris growled.

Buck heard the gunshot but kept his weapon trained on the two men he was assigned to neutralize. "Now, Mr. Cain and whoever the fuck you are, down on the ground or I'm gonna signal agent Tanner. You do remember agent Tanner don'tcha, Cain? Well, he's up in that tower just itchin' to blow your brains all over this tarmac so I suggest you both eat concrete."

Both men complied, the Mexican still glaring at Cain as Ezra walked up, cuffs in hand.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Fucking Upright Citizen Cain." Ezra's drawl was more pronounced as anger and righteous indignation filled him. He pulled Cain's hand roughly behind him and cuffed him. "That affidavit you gave Judge Travis was pure fiction and I cannot wait to hear what you could possible come up with to negate this situation."

"I could tell 'em all about a smart mouthed ATF agent who's just one fix away from bein' the cryin', pukin', slobberin' piece a crap he was six months ago," Cain suggested with a sneer.

"I suppose you could at that," Ezra said, his tone mocking, "But it won't make a bit of difference to the DA - or to Torres." Stepping over the prone man to cuff the Mexican, the ATF agent landed a powerful kick to Cain's rib cage after which he apologized profusely.


	9. Chapter 9

With the pilots and the courier, as well as Cain and his men, safely handcuffed and stowed away in the Quonset hut under the watchful eyes of Vin and Nathan, Buck finished refueling the jet and leaned back against the fender of his truck to watch as Josiah climbed aboard the jet. The big man was followed by Carrie Sims who, for all intents and purposes, was walking out of his life as calmly and professionally as she had walked into it. She had spoken briefly to Chris Larabee then simply passed him by without so much as a goodbye or even a "Fuck off, asshole." He would have taken the latter gladly as her apparent indifference to him cut him to the quick.

Could he really blame her? He'd made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to talk to her and possibly bring up a past that was chock full of transgressions on both their parts. At the time he was content to let sleeping dogs lie but when she disappeared from view he knew he'd lost his one and only chance to perhaps make amends to the mother of his only child.

Clamping his teeth shut tight enough to make his jaw ache, Buck Wilmington refused to let the tears that clouded his eyes fall. Not in front of Chris and the others and certainly not in front of Carrie if she suddenly realized she'd made a terrible mistake by not saying goodbye and came running back down the plane's steps. As quickly as the scenario played out in his head he forced it out of his mind. It was better for everyone involved if she just left.

Turning his head to furtively wipe away an errant tear, Buck spotted Ezra and Chris making their way toward the jet. This time, instead of passing him by, Ezra handed off his weapon to the confused agent and, when Buck attempted to hand it back to the southerner, Ezra simply stepped back out of the way to let Chris explain.

"Ezra doesn't feel comfortable literally sitting on stacks of heroin so I'm sending you in his place." Chris took no pleasure in delivering the obviously troubling news to his suddenly clearly agitated friend but he would not take no for an answer and, before Buck could even open his mouth to protest vehemently, he added, "That's an order, Bucklin."

"I suggest you get on board quickly, Mr. Wilmington because if this jet is more than fifteen minutes overdue the mierda could very well hit the ventilador," Ezra warned him.

"Everything you need will be waiting for you in Miami," Chris added and literally pushed Buck toward the jet's steps.

Josiah started the engines and Buck climbed aboard just as the Lear began to taxi. Securing the door behind him, he stared briefly at the staggering amount of narcotics that was stored in the cabin then took the only available seat; the jump seat attached to the cockpit wall directly behind the co-pilot's seat, and belted himself in.

Fifteen minutes into the flight Buck wondered what in the hell he was doing aboard the Lear on his way back to Miami - a city to which he vowed to never return. His job, he told himself with a sigh then said aloud, "God damn it, Carrie."

"It wasn't my idea," came a disembodied voice from the other side of the thin bulkhead.

Shocked that she had even heard him, Buck threw caution to the wind and demanded, "What did you tell him?"

"That there was a good reason for him not to question your abilities."

"I would have told him...eventually."

"Yeah, right," Carrie snorted.

"Did you tell him, ah..." Buck started to ask but quickly changed his mind

"That once upon a time you had a wife and a child?"

Josiah tried to not eavesdrop but it was difficult even with his earphones on and her bombshell took him completely by surprise. What Josiah also didn't know was that Special Agent in Charge Carrie Sims was Buck's ex-wife and that his child was long dead.

"Yeah, I did," she continued testily clearly irritated with Buck. "I think he deserved at least that much of an explanation."

"_Jesus Christ, Carrie!_" Buck thought angrily and knew his relationship with Chris had probably taken a major hit. He had wanted to tell him and the others as well but, as time passed and other tragic events unfolded, he began to feel like a liar simply through omission. To his mind there was never going to be a "right" time to rip open old wounds.

Carrie evidently thought differently. "You've been acting like a crazy man ever since I got here," she continued, "I knew why but your boss didn't have a clue."

Buck closed his eyes and dragged his hands down his face. How could he casually bring up a subject that was still so excruciating that, even now, he felt as if his heart would break from the pain, his back from the burden of his guilt? "So you thought you'd give him a heads up?"

"This is my operation and I was not about to stand by and let it go sideways."

"Then why'd you let me on board?" Buck asked petulantly.

Carrie smiled to herself and told him truthfully, "Because I wanted the best."


	10. Chapter 10

SAC Carrie Sims' operation didn't exactly go sideways. It went as crooked as a dog's hind leg when the Lear touched down and bullets immediately sprayed the cockpit. Josiah and Carrie had both undone their lap belts long before the well-hidden makeshift airstrip had come into view and as he dove for cover he yanked Carrie from her seat and pulled her into the fuselage and out of the line of further fire.

Buck was out of his seat the moment the first shot pierced the nose of the plane and hit Carrie. He heard her cry out as the bullet lodged in her thigh somewhere north of her knee and south of her pelvis. So much for a flack jacket if you're literally a sitting duck, he thought angrily, and dragged her further back into the cabin while Josiah pulled down the SIG SG 550 assault rifle that was clipped into a makeshift rack beside Buck's jump seat.

The three of them barely fit into the cabin and Buck had to reach between Josiah's feet to drag the first aid kit to him as the big man started to toss bundles of illicit drugs into the cockpit to make more room.

"Be careful none of those split open. The dust'll make it pretty volatile in here," Buck warned him. "It's probably the only reason they haven't shot up the fuselage yet.

Josiah stopped what he was doing and smiled, "I hear you brother but if we don't get blown sky high sitting on all these drugs, it'll only be a matter of time before we'll be sky high and won't give a shit what happens."

Carrie groaned and Buck saw the dark stain spreading out over her pant leg. He stuck his fingers into the bullet hole in the fabric and pulled with all his might and her jeans split open like a ripe blood filled melon. He wiped away the copious amount of blood with his hand and could see the entrance wound right above her kneecap for a split second before a jet of blood covered it and her leg again. She moaned again as he stuck his hand under her rear end and felt around for an exit wound. His hand came back relatively unbloodied and he knew the bullet was still in her.

"I remember the first time you grabbed my ass?" Carrie said through gritted teeth, "You got me drunk on Tequila."

As he opened the med kit and started to pull out various items, Buck smiled at the recollection, "Indeed I do...and you loved it."

Carrie inhaled deeply, let her breath out through clenched teeth to try and keep the pain at bay and said, "I wish I had a bottle of Patron right now."

"So do I, darlin'," Buck told her, "but this is the next best thing." He held up a morphine syrette and jabbed it into her thigh and hoped to hell it would take effect before she went into shock.

"How does it look?" she asked seconds before her eyes started to roll.

"You gonna be just fine, Sims" he told her as he watched blood spurt again from the bullet hole and thought to himself, _"as soon as I clamp down that artery,"_ and pushed the scene in Blackhawk Down, where Cpl. Jamie Smith bled out from a severed femoral artery, from his mind.

Judging from the amount of blood and the force of the discharge, Buck felt the bullet had only nicked Carrie's and a tourniquet would do until help finally came -if it was even on the way.

Cell phone reception was nil but the Lear's emergency locator transmitter, which Josiah had activated before crawling over the center consol instruments, was busily sending out a distress signal for the entire world to hear. The three of them just needed to sit tight until the cavalry arrived but, looking down at Carrie Sim's face, her features drawn and her skin pale, Josiah wondered if she wound make it until then.

"We need to get her outta here, man," Buck said stating the obvious.

Carrie grabbed his pant leg and he squatted and brushed her sweat damp hair from her forehead. She released her hold on his pants and took his hand in hers instead and started, "If this doesn't end well..."

"You're gonna..." He tried to interrupt her and cursed at him.

"Goddamn it, Buck! I'm pretty shot up and I'm pretty fucked up but I want you to promise me one thing. That you'll go to the cemetery." Buck opened his mouth to placate her again and she jumped his shit again. "Bucklin, promise me!" she practically shouted.

He cupped her cheeks in his big hands and she closed her eyes for a moment and felt the soft kiss of his tears as he bent low over her, his face just above hers.

"I promise, Carrie," he whispered, "But can you ever forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive, my love," she whispered back.

Josiah moved enough product to get to one of the windows and spotted a large delivery truck, a Mercedes Benz, and four men, three dressed in jeans and one dressed in a business suit. All of them carried AK 47s and wore flack jackets.

"There's four of 'em all heavily armed and presumably waiting for us to make the next move," he told Buck who dashed the tears from his eyes and stood up.

"Then let's give 'em what they want," he suggested and unzipped his coveralls to reveal a bulletproof vest with a white tee shirt beneath it.

Stripping the rest of the way down to just his jeans, he removed the Kevlar and pulled the tee shirt over his head. He put the vest back on but not before pulling a M84 stun grenade from the pocket.

Walking over to the door, he lowered it and waved his "white flag". When no one shot it out of his hand, he stepped out to find four guns trained directly at him. When he made no threatening move, the men circled around the car and started forward until one spotted the grenade Buck held in one hand and the kilo of heroin he had split open in the other. Little wisps of brown powder wafted on the wind to make his point and they came to a complete stop.

"This is the DEA and you're under arrest," Buck said purely as a formality and heard Josiah snort behind him.

When the man in the suit translated, the others simply stared at Buck as if he were mad then burst out laughing.

Buck smiled in return and, to cut out the middleman, continued in Spanish.

"You're right, this is purely comical because my friend inside has a SG 550 assault rifle pointed directly at all of you so what we have here is what I like to call a DEA standoff. Also, thanks to the hard landing this plane is chock full of powder and, no matter who shoots first, this contraband will be off the streets."

"You'd blow yourselves up just for the job?" the man in the suit asked with a sneer.

"That's right, amigo. My people will all get medals, posthumously of course, but medals none the less and, if the blast doesn't kill you, your boss Torres will."

The man in the suit knew the DEA agent was right. If the plane were destroyed, all of them, and their families as well, would be under a death sentence. Sweat began to gather over his top lip, more from fear than from a sweltering day in the swamps.

Buck heard Carrie moan again. Her breathing had sped up and he figured that toxins were building up in her leg even as he spoke, "I've got a wounded agent in here so I'm prepared to let you have what you came for."

"What do you want in return?"

"She and my partner leave here right now in that fancy car of yours. I stay behind in the plane, my hand wrapped around this M84 with its magnesium-based pyrotechnic charge, until I'm sure they're safe. Then you can have it all, including me."

"And when you surrender, why wouldn't I just shoot you?"

"Oh, I have no doubt that you will," Buck said with a smile.

Ten minutes later, Josiah and Carrie were well on their way to the hospital and safety. His partner and friend had balked hard until Buck had turned Ezra's gun on Josiah and ordered him from the plane, an act that was sure to bring swift and sure retribution should he see the profiler again. But Buck Wilmington had made his deal with the devil and it was time to pay up.

Sweat poured from under his vest and slid down the crack of his ass but he didn't dare so much as move to scratch himself. All guns were now trained on him as the four men moved forward and he walked down the steps of the jet to stoop to place the pistol, the heroin and the grenade gently on the ground in front of him. The M84 rolled once, and then twice, then went off with a flash and a bang - just as advertised.


	11. Chapter 11

As Buck had suspected there wasn't enough powder of any type in the muggy, damp Florida air to ignite a gnat's ass let alone a Learjet. What the flash, and subsequent concussion, did was give him time enough to roll under the jet, dive through the weeds and take off into the swamp where he waited until he was waterlogged, leech infested, bug bitten and finally rescued before the gators could get him.

Choosing to let the DEA agent die in the swamp instead of at their hands, the drug crew scrambled to load the truck but, within minutes, the Coast Guard had triangulated the Leer's beacon and hovered overhead. Taking sporadic gunfire from below, the helo's crew simply disabled the truck, further disabled the jet and then gained enough altitude to be out of range as they waited for SWAT and DEA to arrive.

Buck continued to lay low until he heard sirens and, when he deemed it was safe enough, he slogged back out of the swamp like the creature from the black lagoon, covered in gunk, his hands held high in the air. So many guns were instantaneously trained on him that he wouldn't have moved a muscle, even if the alligator he was sure had been sizing him up while he was out in the weeds, came ashore next to him.

It took several long minutes, face down in the dirt with his hands cuffed behind him, to finally establish his identity, something Josiah Sanchez could have done right away. But the big man had kept his peace right up until they were about to load Buck into the van along with the drug dealers. He finally vouched for the soggy agent sure that Buck Wilmington would think twice before pulling a gun on him again.

When all was said and done, Buck ended up at the same hospital in which Carrie had undergone surgery to save her leg. DEA agents, as well as Miami Dade police officers, lined the halls to pay their respect and Buck watch covertly from the end of the hall. Except for dehydration, a multitude of bug bites and skin pocked with the red, angry remnants of the dozen or so leeches that had found their way into almost ever nook and cranny, he had been released

But couldn't quite make himself leave and, as he stood in the hallway scratching his lesions, two young tow headed boys ran down the hallway followed by another cop, a high ranker with lots of gold on his uniform. A half dozen of the police officers suddenly closed ranks as the three of them entered Carrie's room.

Buck hadn't recognized any of the others but he definitely recognized the police captain who happened to look in his direction just before entering the room. His face was one Buck would never forget.

While Josiah waited at the hotel, Buck hung around for another hour hoping against hope that the flow of traffic in and out of Carrie's room would finally cease. Even as visiting hours ended and shifts changed at the various law enforcement agencies all over the city, her room was never really empty.

"Are you one of the family?" a nurse finally asked solicitously placing her hand on Buck's arm.

A sad smile crossed his face as he straightened up, ready to give up his vigil, "I used to be," he said softly. He turned to go but felt a tug on his sleeve and he stopped and turned.

"My mom says you saved her life." The elder of the two boys he had seen earlier stood before him brushing away a tear.

"Yeah, well your mom's a pretty special lady and I figured you'd want to have her around for a while - if only to keep you and your brother in line."

"She likes to boss everybody around, even my dad," the boy said wrinkling his nose.

"I bet she does," Buck said looking toward her room.

"She ordered me to tell you something."

Buck wondered what parting shot Carrie Sims had to deliver and when he heard her salvo he smiled.

"She said to tell you that she's gonna be fine and for you to not forget about your promise to go to the cemetery."

The boy knew of only one cemetery, one that they visited often, the one where his mother cried and tried not to let them see, the one where his sister was buried.

Scrutinizing Buck's face seriously the boy surmised correctly and said, "You're my sister Hanna's dad, aren't you?"

Buck had not been called Hanna's dad for over twenty years and the words, said so innocently by the young boy, sliced right through him and his lips started to tremble.

Carrie's eldest son Finn had always known his mom had a baby who had died before he and his brother Conner were born. He also knew that his mom had been married before to a bad-ass cop named Buck Wilmington. He had recognized him from the pictures his mom kept "from the olden days" and, when he told her he had seen Hanna's dad out in the hallway, his mom had actually started to cry a little. Pulling herself together, she had then told him to deliver the message.

"My folks have got pictures of you...only you don't have the caterpillar on your face," he said mischievously. Buck laughed aloud and the boy added, "Go in the daytime. The pinwheels are awesome!" and, with his duty discharged, he ran back down the hall and into his mom's room.

Buck headed to the stairwell to the parking garage, descended half a flight and stopped. He turned his face to the wall, his hands grasping the banister in a white knuckled grip and took in a cleansing breath. Letting it out, he leaned his forehead against the cinder-block wall as his thoughts raced.

Despite her maiden name, Carrie _had_ married her partner after all and, although he should have been hurt - or at least jealous, Buck found that he wasn't. His best friend, Mick O'Fallon, had been Carrie's partner. He was a stand up guy and had only stepped in as a last resort when he, himself, had stopped being a husband and Buck was greatful.

While he had chosen to keep life at arm's length, Carrie had chosen to move on and embrace it with open arms. She had a beautiful family, of which he was sorely jealous, and, judging by the boy's comments, Buck had been a part of it all along.


	12. Chapter 12

After taking a cab from the hospital back to the hotel, Buck Wilmington spent a restless night tossing and turning. As he listened to Josiah snore, he scratched himself raw and mulled over his life in general. There had been a brief rekindling of hope when Carrie had called him "my love" as she lay bleeding in the jet but seeing her family had put everything back into perspective. That and the fact that she had been high as a kite when she'd said it.

But no one ever forgets his or her first love. It was just a fact of life and he would rather live apart from her in that love than try to force her to choose...again. Besides, Mick O'Fallon, former Miami-Dade Boxing team champion, still looked pretty damned fit in his Captain's uniform.

Buck had just nodded off when he was reawakened by Josiah's deep baritone as the profiler sang in the shower. Giving up the ghost on trying to get any sleep, Buck got up, poured two packets of coffee into the tiny coffeemaker and, after a few minutes, sat back down on his bed to savor a hot cup of just plain nastiness.

Josiah walked out of the bathroom wrapped in only a towel and Buck begged God to strike him blind when he dropped it and started to dress.

"We gotta be at the airport at oh six hundred...unless you got some more business here in town."

Buck yawned mightily and then started to cough. Mornings were usually rough for him but this one was a bitch. "I just need to make a quick stop," he told Josiah then headed into the bathroom to shower and shave.

Thankfully, his roommate was completely dressed when he emerged from the hot, moisture clouded room, his bumps and lesions clearly visible on all the parts of his body not covered by his own towel.

"This quick stop..." Josiah started then trailed off waiting for Buck to offer up more information.

"The cemetery," the ladies' man said casually, although he was feeling anything but.

Josiah stared at him dumbly. "I thought you said she was gonna be okay."

"Carrie's fine. Came through with flying colors," Buck said and left it at that.

Josiah sat, eyes averted, as Buck quickly dressed. The silence stretching out before them drove him crazy and he finally said. "Listen, I couldn't help but overhear..."

"Yeah?" Buck replied scratching his arms.

"You know, Carrie's comment about her telling Chris that you had a wife and a kid.

Since Buck never mentioned them, Josiah figured they were probably divorced but asked anyway, "Are we ever gonna meet 'em?"

Buck stood up, shoved his DEA voucher cash into the pocket of his freshly laundered jeans and smoothed back his wet hair. "You've just had the pleasure of working with my ex-wife," he said then added stoically, "and I'm goin' to see my baby girl right now."

As he walked through the door, Josiah just stared after him his mouth agape as the second puzzle piece fell into place.

It was barely light out and Buck stood in the middle of Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery near the children's area. The wind had kicked up off the ocean and he heard a disquieting noise, kind of like the purring of a hundred metal cats, as he walked on. His daughter's grave was further in than he realized as life had gone on and many, many more children had slipped their earthly bonds since Hanna had died but he knew he was close. He could feel it.

In the dawn's early light, the cemetery was oppressive as hell and the wind gusted again and the purring grew louder. He was tempted to not only leave but to run away as fast as he could. But Buck Wilmington had made a promise and, as he knelt down in front of a small stone, the sun broke over the horizon and the gravestones and monuments began to take shape all around him.

Hanna's marker was fairly plain and simply read:

When she was born, the hardest thing was to hear her crying.

When she began to crawl, the hardest thing was to corral her creeping.

When she stood up and walked, the hardest thing was to see her leaving.

When she learned to run, the hardest thing was to watch her falling.

When she skinned her knees, the hardest thing was to hear her weeping.

And when she died, the hardest thing was to give her into Heaven's keeping.

Hanna Dowd Wilmington

Daddy's Girl

March 22, 1989 - March 16, 1991

Hanna's daddy knelt by her grave, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks, listening to what now sounded like children's laughter as dozens and dozens of pinwheels spun wildly and sparkled brilliantly in the morning sun.

FIN

As always I appreciate all of the hits and the reviews. They help me forge ahead when writer's block becomes almost painful.

Hanna's middle name is actually my daughter's middle name. She is named for my father, an Air Force pilot and died when I was a kid on March 16th, the hardest thing for me.


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